Satisfied with the contents of the parcel and a second Coin, the chief warder turned Alec over to another guard, who led him into the depths of the chilly edifice.
The walls seemed to press in around Alec as he followed the warder up flight after drafty flight of stone stairs. His time in Asengai’s dungeon had left him with an indelible hatred of such places.
Stopping at one of the low cell doors, the guard peered through the tiny grille. “Visitor, your lordship!”
A muffled reply came from within.
“You’ll have to speak to him through here,” the warder told Alec. “Don’t pass nothing through, not even your hand. I’ll see to it that he gets this package.”
Taking Alec’s bundle, he moved off far enough to give them a modicum of privacy.
The grille was set deep in the thick wooden door. Light from the nearest lantern in the corridor slanted through the bars, illuminating a crescent of profile and one glittering eye.
“Are you all right?” Alec whispered anxiously.
“So far,” Seregil replied. “It’s damn cold, though.”
“I brought a blanket, and some fresh clothes.”
“Thanks. Any news?”
Leaning as close as he dared, Alec quickly told him the details of their conference at the Cockerel. “Nysander thinks finding evidence against your forger may be our only chance. Micum and I’ll have to do it, I guess, but we’re not certain how. God, I wish all this hadn’t happened!”
“I know how you feel. Is the guard still well away?”
“Yes.”
“Then pay attention.” Seregil cautiously reached the fingers of one hand through the bars, signing something about Micum.
It was too quick. Alec shook his head. “I can hardly hear you. What did you say?”
“I said it’s a dead end. Nothing to be gained,” Seregil said, raising his voice for the guard’s benefit as he signed again, more slowly this time.
His fingers were somewhat hampered by the bars, but Alec got Tell Micum silver fish.
“I don’t understand!” Alec whispered, convinced he must have gotten the nonsensical message Wrong. “I won’t leave you here to rot!”
“Don’t fret,” Seregil replied, locking eyes with him. “There’s a lucky moon tomorrow night. Fortify yourself with prayers to the Lightbearer and all will be well. In the meantime, I entrust you to the care of Micum Cavish. Heed his wisdom; he’s a man of many parts.”
“Sorry, young sir, that’s all the time I can give you,” the guard called.
“Damn!” muttered Alec, still convinced he’d misinterpreted a crucial message. Pretending to brush back a stray strand of hair, he signed Silver fish?
To his surprise, Seregil nodded emphatically.
“Come along, sir!”
Alec held Seregil’s gaze a moment longer, heart pounding painfully in his chest. What he could see of Seregil’s mouth tilted up suddenly in the old reassuring grin.
“Why the long face?” Seregil whispered. “You’re not alone in this, you know. Everything’s going to be fine!”
But Alec felt anything but fine as he followed the guard back down the stairs. Much as he wanted to believe Seregil’s brave assurances, he thought he’d heard a hollow note in his friend’s voice. They were in a bad spot, and a good deal of it was up to him to solve. The consequences of failure were too awful to bear thinking about.
His face must have given something of this away, for the guard said kindly, “There now, sir, perhaps it’ll all come right in the end. He seems a good enough fellow.”
Sensing a potential ally, Alec managed to work up a few tears by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs. In fact, they came with surprising ease.
As soon as they were out of sight of the prison Alec passed on Seregil’s strange message. For a moment Micum looked disconcertingly blank.
“Silver fish?” Stroking the corners of his mustache, he shook his head. Then suddenly he broke into a broad grin. “By the Flame, he must have meant silverfish, like the insect!”
“That means something to you?” Alec asked, still doubtful.
“Oh, yes! In fact, our sneaky friend has given us our whole plan of attack. I’ll explain when we get home—home being Wheel Street tonight.”
Runcer met them at the door. “The guests have departed, Sir Alec, and I have laid a fire in your chamber. Will you be requiring anything else tonight?”
“No, thank you,” Alec replied, feeling a bit confused. The elderly servant’s manner conveyed the impression that he had served Alec all his life. He was hovering in a manner that suggested he expected further orders. “Well, I think I can manage. You should go to bed, ah—”
“Runcer,” Micum whispered behind him.
“Runcer, yes. Go to bed. It’s late. Thank you.”
Runcer’s wrinkled face betrayed nothing but respectful attention as he bowed good night. Retreating hastily upstairs, Alec found his new bedchamber brightly illuminated.
“He’s refurbished it,” Micum remarked dryly, looking the place over. “It’s very—Mycenian.”
“Is that what you’d call it?”
The cabinets, chests, chairs, and tall, carved bedstead were all brightly painted with garish fruit and game motifs. The bed hangings, though faded, were richly embroidered with a pattern of pomegranates and wheat. The overall effect was rather overwhelming, even to Alec’s untutored eye. The only familiar ob jects in the room were his sword and bow, which lay across the bed.
“I supposed I’ll get used to it,” he sighed, drawing a chair up to the fire. “Now tell me about the silverfish.”
“Old Silverfish was a name we gave to a slippery customer Nysander had us track down a few years back,” explained Micum. “He was another blackmailer and, like his namesake, he had a talent for disappearing into the woodwork. Seregil had a hell of a time finding his cache. He finally did, though, and I never saw a prettier bit of coggery.”
“How did he do it?”
“We’ll get to that. What else did he tell you?”
“To depend on you, and that there’d be a lucky moon tomorrow night when I should pray to Illior. I think he means we do the burglary then.”
“Right. We’ll pay a daylight visit to Master Alben’s shop, look the place over, then do the real work after dark.”
“And if he’s right? The bailiff who arrested Seregil had my name, too. If I show up with evidence they’ll never believe us!”
“Probably not. Which means we have to make certain it gets to the Queen some other way. The City Watch, for instance. I daresay they’d welcome the opportunity to arrest a traitor.”
“Sure, but why would the Watch believe us any more than the Queen’s Bailiff?”
“They wouldn’t,” Micum said with a sly smile. “But Myrhini will.”
“Who?” Alec was too tired to place the name immediately.
“Princess Klia’s friend. She’s a captain of the Horse Guard.”
Alec, rubbed his eyelids with the heels of his palms. “Oh, yes, the one who took me to the barracks for a pass that day Seregil had me robbed.”
“The day he what?”
“Never mind. You think Myrhini will help us?”
“For Klia’s sake, if not for Seregil’s. I’ll send a message, but I don’t expect we’ll see her before dawn. You try out this new bed of yours in the meantime. I have an idea tomorrow will be another long day.”
Alec gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t think I’ve seen a short one since I met Seregil!”
27
HIND STREET
Opening his eyes the next morning, Alec was startled to find Runcer bending over him.
“Forgive me for the intrusion, Sir Alec, but Sir Micum sent me to wake you.” Moving with fossilized dignity, the old man set a steaming pitcher on the washstand.
The promise of a watery grey dawn-filtered in at the window. He couldn’t have been asleep more than a few hours. Sitting up, Alec watched the old servant moving
about the room at what were apparently his morning duties. After laying out the bath items, he fetched clean linen and a fresh shirt from a clothes chest and laid them out on the foot of the bed.
Unaccustomed to such ministrations, Alec watched with growing unease. His experiences at the Orëska baths had left him wary of servants. What if the man wanted to help him dress? It was unnatural, having another person doing things for him as if he were a child or an invalid. The man’s respectful silence only made matters worse.
“You manage the household, don’t you?” Alec asked as Runcer proceeded to brush his cloak. How much, he wondered, did this wrinkled old man know of his real background—or Seregil’s, for that matter?
“Of course, sir,” Runcer replied with no discernible change of expression. “Lord Seregil has left instructions that you be made comfortable. Breakfast has been laid in the dining room and Captain Myrhini is expected shortly. Shall I lay out your clothes, sir?”
“I suppose so.”
Runcer went to another chest for breeches, then creaked to a halt at the wardrobe. “And which coat would you prefer today, sir?”
Having absolutely no clue as to the contents of the wardrobe, Alec hazarded a guess. “The blue, please.”
“The blue, sir.” The old servant took out an outrageously ornate coat stitched with gold beading.
“Well, maybe not the blue,” Alec countered hastily. “I’ll decide later.”
“Very good, sir.”
To Alec’s dismay, Runcer did not leave but instead gave him another of those expectant looks. After a long, chagrined moment Alec realized he was waiting to be dismissed.
“Thank you, Runcer, I don’t need you.”
“Very good, sir.” The old man bowed and left the room.
“Bilairy’s Balls!” Jumping out of bed, Alec stalked to the wardrobe and inspected the surcoats hanging there. The blue was by far the gaudiest. Pawing through the others, he found a plain russet and hurried into his clothes. Not surprisingly, they all fit as if he’d been measured for them, even down to the boots.
Seregil did this while I was in Watermead, Alec thought with a pang. And none of it will be worth a damn if we don’t get him out of the Tower.
He headed downstairs and followed the smell of sausage to a pleasant room overlooking the garden. Micum was seated already, with Seregil’s two Zengati hounds lying to either side of his chair. Apparently they held no grudge over his recent burglary. At his approach they merely raised their gleaming white heads, heavy tails brushing the floor in welcome.
Micum pushed a plate of sausage his way. “You’d better eat something. Myrhini will be here any minute.”
They’d barely finished their hasty meal when Runcer ushered in the tall captain.
“This had better be fast. I’ve got inspection in an hour,” she warned, mud-spattered cloak billowing about her legs as she joined them at the table.
“How’s Klia taking the news of the arrest?” asked Micum.
“Oh, she’s livid, but worried, too. Queen’s Kin or no, Vicegerent Barien’s out for blood, and pissed as hell that Idrilain granted a grace period before the questioning starts.”
“Nysander expected that,” said Alec. “Does Barien have a grudge against Seregil?”
Myrhini held up her hands. “Who knows? According to Klia, he thinks Seregil’s a bad influence and has never liked his being friends with her and the twins.”
Elesthera and Tymore, thought Alec. Seregil had drilled him mercilessly on the royal family. The twins were Klia’s older brother and sister, Idrilain’s other children by her second consort.
“Did you tell Klia you were meeting us?” asked Micum.
“No and she’ll ream me for it when she finds out. But I agree with you that it’s best not to involve her until we know which way the wind’s going to blow. So, how can I help?”
Micum poured more tea and settled back in his chair. “There’s a man in Hind Street, a forger, who probably fabricated the false documents that put Seregil in the Tower. Seregil had planned to go after him himself tonight; he wants us to go ahead without him.”
“But the evidence can’t come from us,” added Alec. “Barien could say we made it up just to clear Seregil’s name.”
Myrhini looked out at the grey sky brightening above the muddy garden. “What you need is someone to tip off the blue-coats. Someone who won’t ask too many questions.”
“That’s about the size of it,” said Micum. “Of course, there’s a certain amount of risk involved. I’d understand if you wanted no part of it.”
Myrhini waved the warning aside with a disgusted look. “As it happens, there is a certain captain of the Watch who’d be happy enough to do me a favor. And Hind Street just happens to be in his ward—to catch a forger squeezing nobles would be a proper feather in his cap.”
Micum grinned knowingly. “Enough said. We’ll send word as soon as we’re certain of our man. When we do, you speak to your bluecoat captain. Alec and I will play the flushing hounds and he can have the kill. We’ll need you there, though. Your captain can’t see us or know we’re involved.”
“I’ll be there.” Myrhini rose to go. “Having one of the Queen’s daughters as best friend and commander does have its occasional advantages, you know.”
Alec made his way through a cold winter drizzle to Hind Street an hour later. It was a neighborhood of plain, respectable tenements: five-story wood and stone buildings constructed around small interior courtyards.
Dressed as a country lad of good family, he made a show of great agitation as he asked directions along the street. He was directed to a whitewashed building in the third block. Hurrying into the courtyard, he spotted a brass mortar hung over a door on the ground level. The shutters were open. With a silent prayer to Illior of the Thieves, he lifted the latch and burst into the little shop.
The low room reeked of herbs and oils. A young boy stood heating something over a lamp at a table near the back of the shop.
“Is this the apothecary’s?” Alec asked breathlessly.
“Aye, but Master Alben’s still at his breakfast,” the boy replied without looking up from his work.
“Call him, please!” cried Alec. “I’ve been sent for medicine. My poor mother’s had an issue of blood since last night, and nothing seems to stop it!”
This galvanized the apprentice. Setting his pan aside, he disappeared through a curtain at the back of the room, returning a moment later with a balding man with a long grey beard.
“Master Alben?” asked Alec.
“That’s me,” the man answered brusquely, brushing crumbs from the front of his robe. “What’s all this fuss about, first thing in the day?”
“It’s my mother, sir. She’s bleeding terribly!”
“Durnik told me that much, boy. We’ve no time to waste on hysterics,” snapped Alben. “Does the blood come from her mouth, nose, ears, or womb?”
“From the womb. We’re in from the country and didn’t know where to find a midwife. They said at the inn that you might have herbs—”
“Yes, yes, Durnik, you know which jars.”
The apprentice fetched three jars from one of the crowded shelves and the apothecary set to work measuring the herbs and powders into a mortar. Alec wandered to the window, wringing his hands with simulated impatience.
In the courtyard outside he saw other tenants of the place setting out for their day’s business. Micum was just across the way, strolling around the court as if looking for a particular address. Seeing Alec at the window, he sauntered over in the direction of a refuse pile in a corner of the yard.
Alec paced back to the worktable. “Can’t you hurry?” he implored.
“A moment!” snapped Alben, still grinding. “It’s of no use at all if it isn’t correctly mixed—By the Four! Is that smoke?”
At that moment a cry of “Fire!” went up in the courtyard, followed by a scream and the sound of running feet. Dropping his pestle, the apothecary rushed to the
door. The rubbish heap was in flames.
“Fire! Arson!” he shrieked, going white. “Durnik, fetch water at once! Fire, fire in the courtyard!”
By now the shout had been taken up through the building and doors flew open as people hurried out to douse the blaze.
Young Durnik ran for the well, but his master disappeared back through the curtain. Following him, Alec discovered a comfortable sitting room behind the shop. Alben was hovering at the hearth, gripping one of the carved pillars supporting the mantel with one hand, and pulling nervously at his beard with the other.
Seeing Alec in the doorway, he snarled, “What are you doing in here? Get out!”
“The medicine, sir,” Alec ventured meekly. “For my mother?”
“What? Oh, the medicine! Take it, take it!”
“But the price?”
“Bugger the price, you idiot! Can’t you see there’s a fire?” Alben gasped furiously, making no move to abandon the hearth. “Get out, damn you!”
Backing out through the curtain, Alec dumped the contents of the mortar into a parchment cone and hurried out past the crowd that had gathered in the street. A few blocks from the tenement Micum stepped from an alley to meet him.
“Well?”
“I think it worked,” Alec told him. “As soon as it started he went right to the room behind the shop and wouldn’t be moved from the hearth.”
“We’ve got him, then! It’s just as Seregil said the first time we pulled that trick on Old Silverfish: ‘Shout “Fire” and a mother will race to save her child, a craftsman for his tools, a courtesan for her jewel box, and a blackmailer for his hoard of papers.’ ”
“So now we tell Myrhini?”
“Yes, and pray to Illior this is the right forger!”
That night, Seregil found himself with nothing to do but worry. The cell’s tiny slit of a window was too high to look out of; he gauged the passage of time by listening to the prison go quiet around him. Hunched miserably on the hard stone sleeping shelf with his blankets pulled tight around his shoulders, he worried.